Sharp Contrasts and Soft Edges
by BookRaven24
Summary: "Our contrast is always sharp, we are so different. But sometimes I think maybe that's what makes it so exciting, two totally opposite things so in sync. It feels like power, like dreaming but better because there is no fear of night terrors, only the now, and the feel of his skin against mine." Some much needed Pynch fluff/non-explicit smut. Sort of poetic, I guess? Oneshot.


**Hey guys. Its me. I'm alive. If you're getting an alert for this story because you've followed me because of Paint Me Pretty, don't worry, I'm working on Chapter six now.**

 **If you're just scrolling through and happen to see this fic, hello! Welcome!**

 **I just finished Blue Lily, Lily Blue, and there was a shameful lack of Pynch. Now, originally I shipped Rovinsky, but, well, that ship went up in flames. Literally...So these two boys kind of grew on me. This is meant to be more poetic and suggestive than actually explicit, but it is boy x boy, mild smut. Not your cup of tea, move elsewhere.**

 **Disclaimer** **: Maggie Stiefvater owns the boys, I just own the writing, and I'm only getting paid in reviews. Cover image credit to whoever drew it, but its not mine.**

* * *

He is all soft skin hiding hard muscle, pale hair and silent eyes.

I am sharp edges and tattoos stretched across white skin, angry lips and burning eyes.

Our contrast is always sharp, we are so different. But sometimes I think maybe that's what makes it so exciting, two totally opposite things so in sync. It feels like power, like dreaming but better because there is no fear of night terrors, only the now, and the feel of his skin against mine.

It started out slow, almost imperceptible. One day, when my eyes strayed onto his face, I found him already looking at me.

One night, when our arms brushed as all five of us poured over maps and journals in Monmouth, I felt him move a tiny bit closer to me, as if cold.

One morning, I caught him smiling quietly at me as he watched me pour cereal into a bowl. As soon as he saw me looking, he looked away, cheeks pink.

I only recognized the signs because I'd been doing the same thing to him for two years.

One evening, I found myself lying on the floor of his tiny apartment, as he lay beside me carefully repeating Latin phrases back to me. We weren't fighting, and if we were both a bit on edge because of the way his shoulder pressed into mine, neither of us spoke of it.

Soon, we were spending time together away from the others. I invented excuses to stop by where he worked, he asked for help with homework he'd already done.

One such day, as we sat against his bed, some petty argument started between us, about me being an asshole and him being a prick and him saying I should hate him.

I guess I snapped then. I gave up trying to listen to my head telling me that all of this was going to hurt very badly.

"Don't you get it you asshole?" I snapped, words full of frustration. Then I grabbed his jaw and kissed him, hard. I watched his eyes widen, then slip closed as he readily, willingly accepted the kiss.

All of me lit on fire. He tasted of salt and dust, his lips dry from the Henrietta heat. His hand reached to the back of my neck, nails digging into my skin as I leaned into him. He smelled like shampoo and Cabeswater, like honesty, like hope, like bad ideas.

It felt like the moment stretched forever, soft and quiet yet loud and tense and stretched. We were both holding back our respective desires, keeping our lust on tight leashes like barely trained tigers. His other hand rested against my chest, fingers tense and quivering, as if he were forcing there to be space between us, as if we got too close some chemical reaction would occur and we might explode.

* * *

Now, he stands before me, glaring, challenging. He stands in the middle of my bedroom, out of place yet right at home in the organised disaster. Monmouth is empty. My mind is empty. Empty of everything except the way his eyelashes leave shadows on his cheeks and his chin juts stubbornly.

In minutes, I've pressed him against the wall. Heat, flames lick across my skin in the form of his fingers as he desperately runs his fingers across my bare skin, my shirt discarded somewhere in the clutter. Our mouths cling hungrily to one another, as if the others lips are air to drowning men.

His nails slide along my spine, my fingers dig into his hips as we press closer, our bodies begging for more, our minds barely comprehending that the situation, is, in fact, real. I bite his lip, feel his whole body shiver against me as I slide my tongue into his mouth.

One would imagine that with us, I would always lead. But he is too prideful to allow that, so we battle for dominance and end with equality. But the fire never abates, burning me up in the way his eyes flutter when I slide my lips across his collarbone.

The bed is beneath us. His hands trace my tattoos. We look at each other. A moment of stillness as we both read the others face.

Then, like the asshole I am, I smirk cockily at him. He lunges at me. I easily move so in the end, he's on his back as I hover above him. Then it's a rush as we attack each other's lips again, a frantic, desperate plea for something that neither of us are quite ready to name.

Sweat slides down my back as I press my lips against his neck to muffle a moan. He pants beneath me, all smooth tanned skin and pale blond hair. His blue eyes, clouded and dark with that forbidden emotion, entrance me. Half closed eyes, mouth open as he whimpers and moans, hair damp with sweat, he is an erotic angel, a sight from a dream, the kind that you never tell anyone.

My mind is a burning disaster, my skin is on fire and the heat inside me rivals a volcano. He is burning me up from the inside, and I am doing the same to him. We move in sync, my swearing fitting into his panting, my body fitting against his in a way that is puzzling in its rightness. Sweaty skin slides against sweaty skin, pulses of heat sweep through us, movement increases.

His lips find mine in a messy, clumsy, hard, desperate kiss, as he arches against me. It's as if he's falling apart and all that's keeping him from shattering is my lips, as he moans my name into our kiss, then shudders and falls back against the bed.

I am seconds behind him. His name is yelled into the air accompanied by a hundred curses but somehow none of them seem like a bad thing.

And after, when I curl my arms around his slim hips, pulling his back against my chest, I fall asleep with his name across my lips and a smile in my mind.

 _Adam._

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 **Awwwwwwww. I wrote this around midnight and its not really edited so sorry if its shit. I love doing oneshots, so if you have any ideas for one, leave it in a review or shoot me a PM. Also, should I write a Rovinsky or Bluesy oneshot? Lemme know. Thanks so much for reading, please please please leave me a review, even if its a criticism. I love reviews. Like, a lot.**

 **Kisses**

 **Kira**


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